


Unprodigal Daughters

by Butyoucancallmemeg



Category: Jagged Little Pill - Morissette & Ballard/Morissette/Cody
Genre: Bisexual Character, F/F, Homophobia, Lesbian Character, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Pre-Canon, Slurs, gender euphoria, just one slur, moms are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24746785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butyoucancallmemeg/pseuds/Butyoucancallmemeg
Summary: Frankie and her mom run into Jo while out shopping. Unfortunately, they also run into Jo's mother.
Relationships: Frankie Healy & Mary Jane "MJ" Healy, Frankie Healy/Jo
Comments: 11
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer that Age and Time wise this fic should happen in the spring of Frankie and Jo's junior year, but is set before the events of the musical in terms of character development and their relationship, so this is me handwaving that away. 
> 
> Skip to avoid spoilers but CWs below:  
> -  
> use of the d-slur by a parent, homophobic mother in general, allusions to verbal abuse and allusions to underage (consensual) sex.  
> -

“Thanks for coming with me today, sweetie,” MJ says as she slides hangers up and down a sale rack, “We haven’t had a girls’ day in a while.”

She pulls apart two coppery-brown shirts, and gives a dismissive nose-wrinkle at the beading on the front. Frankie sips her iced coffee and shrugs in response, idly testing the texture of a sleeve between her fingertips. 

Shopping with her mother isn’t the hardship it could be, really. Sure, she was fully dressed and out the door by eleven A.M. on a Saturday, but spring formal is in just over a month, and the tantalizing promise of dress shopping comes at the unfortunate price of trailing her mother through every other WASP-oriented store the mall had to offer. At least Macy’s has a juniors’ section. And when MJ says, ‘we’ll make a day of it!’ about shopping, Frankie knows she’s getting lunch, coffee, and free stuff out of the deal. 

Selecting a blouse from the rack, MJ spins to face a mirrored column, pressing it to her chest and tilting her head appraisingly. It’s blue, with cropped sleeves, cinching at the hem. Frankie twists her lips at it, coming to stand next to her in the mirror. 

“I don’t know if it’s your shade, Mom,” she says pragmatically, “And I don’t love --” she gives an encompassing gesture toward the bottom, “whatever’s going on there.”

MJ tuts, but hangs the shirt back on the rack. 

“You need more summer tones,” Frankie announces, flicking idly through the next rack. Teen Vogue did a spread on seasons and coloring a month ago, and Frankie spent an afternoon swatching eyeshadows on Jo’s arms and boldly declaring her a  _ sultry winter _ . It felt very adult, to be able to throw out words like “cool tones” and “summer palette”. 

“And you, young lady, need more summer  _ clothes _ ,” MJ counters, swiftly changing the subject, “The catalogue says there’s a sale on sundresses, let’s go take a peek before we go.”

_ Finally _ . It’s another endeavor entirely to pick out clothes for  _ herself  _ with her mother, but at least this one will end in free stuff. And, hopefully, a prom dress.

“I do like a good sundress,” Frankie admits, and follows her mother down an aisle. 

Frankie’s rifling one-handed through a rack of jean shorts, chewing on her orange straw when she hears it. 

“Mom--” a familiar voice pleads, and Frankie’s head snaps up. Sometimes it feels like her ears are tuned to the frequency of Jo’s voice, the way she’s able to pick it out of a crowd. Jo says it’s just that she’s loud. Either way, the recognition is instant. 

Jo’s voice, in the junior girls’ section of Macy’s, where she only goes when they’re being mallrats and Frankie bribes her with a soft pretzel and an illicit dressing-room makeout, is -- well, unexpected to say the least. Frankie frowns, casting around for a glimpse of the telltale beanie. MJ is next to her, hemming and hawing over an ash-grey cropped sweater, and Jo’s not in sight, but she can’t be far. 

“Joanne!” comes Jo’s mother’s sharp voice. It’s low to keep from making a scene, but irritated, exasperated. The picture in Frankie’s head gets clearer. She puts a soft hand on her mother’s arm to catch her attention.

“I’ll be right back,” she promises, and whatever look she’s got on her face has MJ frowning in concern.

Jo and her mother fight over clothes  _ all the time _ . And hair, and shoes, and makeup and shaving her legs and a million other things. The words, ‘controlling bitch’ come to mind. She figures it’s the same as her and MJ, the way they clash.

Frankie knows this, makes sure to compliment her thrifted T-shirts and big button-ups and fun-colored hats whenever she spots a new one. If Jo’s in a clothing store with her mother, nothing good can really be happening right now. 

It only takes a few strides, the turn of one corner, before the whole tableau is in front of her: Jo, hoodie sleeves held in white-knuckled fists, hunched small and uncomfortable next to a rack of dresses. Her mother, all of five-two and looking indeed like the Talbot’s catalogue threw up on her, is holding a pink sundress in her hands. 

Jo wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it. 

“I won’t have you running around looking like a homeless little  _ boy _ , Joanne,” Mrs. Taylor spits, mouth pressed into a thin line, “You are a  _ young lady _ !” 

Jo shrinks further into herself, clearly biting her tongue against a retort, and eyes the dress. 

“Mom,” she practically begs, voice cracking, “Why do we have to do this, I don’t  _ want  _ to  _ wear  _ a  _ dress _ ! I look fine!” 

“You look like a  _ dyke _ , Joanne,” Mrs. Taylor hisses in a whisper, and Jo flinches back hard.

“Jo!” Frankie exclaims, injecting herself into their conversation before she can even really think about it. She manufactures enough surprised delight that it might seem like she wasn’t eavesdropping, like she  _ just  _ stumbled on them. She sort of did, at least. 

“Oh my god hi! What are the odds!” she turns on her best girly-girl ditz for Jo’s mother, who’s stopped in her tracks at Frankie’s approach. Jo’s eyes catch on her, wide and surprised, but she doesn’t lose the tense discomfort from her shoulders. She still looks like she wants to flee. 

“Frankie -- hey,” Jo stutters out, looking between Frankie and her mother wildly. Her usual cocky charm is nowhere to be found, and a flush crawls up her cheeks. For a self-conscious second, Frankie wonders if it’s  _ her  _ Jo’s embarrassed of. But that can’t be right. Jo’s mom doesn’t know about them - she thinks Frankie is Jo’s token girly-girl friend, and  _ loves  _ that they have sleepovers and movie nights. Pretty-for-a-black-girl comments aside, Frankie’s manufactured a pretty solid relationship with the lady. According to Jo, Frankie might be the feminine influence that will bring her daughter into the light. She always says it with a derisive snort and a swift change of subject. 

Now, Jo’s not brushing it off so easily. She’s trying, though, and Frankie can see her straighten up, start to put on that easy smile she flashes at school, between classes. 

On instinct, Frankie closes the gap between them to throw her arms around her shoulders. She keeps it short enough to pass for a friendly ‘hello’ hug, but Jo’s hand comes up to circle her waist for a brief moment and  _ clings _ , bunching up the back of her shirt with the force of it. 

Jesus. 

When they break apart, Frankie lets her hand brush its way down Jo’s back as they separate, and sticks close to her side. 

Jo throws her a grateful look, fondness mixing with relief. 

It’s never seemed like a big deal, the fights Jo got in with her mother. There’s always a fatalistic  blasé  to her stories about it. Right now, Jo’s face is telling a different story. 

She can’t just leave Jo with her mother, now that she’s arrived and stopped whatever was going on, but she doesn’t know where to go from here. Would MJ mind if she dragged Jo along wherever they’re going? Probably not enough to stop it. Maybe she can just bulldoze her way into making it happen. Would Mrs. Taylor let them get away with it?

“Mary Frances,” Mrs. Taylor greets, sounding - well, friendly enough to be believable. It’s betrayed by the pinched look on her face. Frankie winces at the use of her full name, but Mrs. Taylor is a full-name kind of lady - or maybe she became that way when Jo started hating the sound of her own. Maybe she’s  _ why  _ Jo hates the sound of her own. 

“Hi Mrs. Taylor!” Frankie chirps, and it’s harder now, having seen Jo’s anguished face, to make herself play the bubbly friend. She wants to slap this woman, for making Jo feel like this. For calling her that. 

Silence lulls for a beat too long before Frankie bites the bullet and turns to Jo. 

“Hey, my Mom and I were gonna go look at Formal dresses after this, you should come with us!”

Jo blinks, startled. “Uh- yeah, I mean--” Her eyes dart to her mother, but she swallows.

“Yeah, totally.” This time, there’s an edge to her voice, like she’s daring her mother to put up a fight.

MJ pokes her head around a sale rack before Jo’s mother even has time to open her mouth in protest.

“Frankie?” her eyes fall on Frankie, then on Jo, and finally on Mrs. Taylor, and she blinks like she’s gathered a lot of information from it. 

“Linda!” Frankie can practically see the glue as MJ pastes on her suburban-mom-at-the-function smile. Mrs. Taylor gives a taut smile back. 

“Mom!” Frankie greets eagerly, “Can Jo come look at dresses with us?” she bounces on her toes, widening her eyes in the faint hope that her mother can read her mind, “I know it’s girls’ day but I  _ totally  _ need her best friend opinions,” she enthuses. 

She’s talking too fast for it to really be genuine, but probably no one will notice. Mrs. Taylor won’t, they don’t exchange more than polite Hello-How-Are-You’s before Jo drags her upstairs. 

MJ, brows up in surprise, looks between Jo and Mrs. Taylor. 

“Sure, honey,” she says agreeably, eyes on Mrs. Taylor, “I don’t see why not! We’d love to have her.”

Then, “I found this blouse I think you should try on.”

Frankie’s not really one to wear anything that could be conceivably called a  _ blouse _ , but she snatches the top from her mother in an instant. 

“Awesome!” she says, grabbing Jo’s wrist, “I totally will! Jo, come see!” 

And then she’s dragging Jo toward the dressing rooms. Once they’ve turned the corner, Jo twists her wrist, laces her fingers into Frankie’s, and squeezes. 

-

Neither Frankie nor Jo says anything until the lock on the dressing room door has clicked into place. Jo collapses onto the bench beside the mirror with a sigh, yanking off her beanie to run a hand through her hair. 

Frankie leans back against the door, watching her. 

“Are you--” she hesitates, “Okay?” 

Jo gives a humorless little laugh. “I hate that woman.” she says, flat and sad and defeated. She looks small. Jo’s the kind of girl that unapologetically takes up space - it’s what Frankie likes about her. Nothing ever really seems to phase her. 

Frankie sits next to her. 

“I didn’t realize it was that bad,” she admits softly.

“Didn’t want you to,” Jo says, leaning back and looking up at the ceiling. “It’s stupid. Every time I try to stand up to her it’s like -” she sighs out hard through her nose, “Like she can’t even stand to  _ look  _ at me,” she says, bitter and exhausted in equal measure. 

Frankie reaches for her hand, and Jo lets her turn over the fist she’s clenching in her lap, open the fingers, and slide her own between them. 

“It’s not stupid.” She tells Jo earnestly. She squeezes Jo’s hand. “You’re pretty brave, actually.” 

Jo rolls her eyes. “For letting her walk all over me? I’ll be honest, Frankie, if you hadn’t shown up, I probably would’ve tried on the dress.” 

“For standing up to her anyways,” Frankie insists, “And for putting up with her at all.”

Jo shrugs, noncommittal. Her eyes are fixed on the floor now, vacant like she’s thinking too hard to look anywhere in particular, and her lips are pressed into a thin line.

“If I was really brave, I’d tell her I  _ am  _ a dyke.  _ That  _ would be a fun conversation.” She swallows, gives a tense laugh, “Just one more for the list of things to pray away!” her voice cracks halfway through, but she throws a hand up cast the words onto a marquee. 

“Do you think you will?” Frankie asks, before she can stop herself. She hasn’t come out to MJ, but it’s really just a matter of  _ not yet _ . She’d never really considered  _ not at all _ .

Jo barks a laugh, a punched-out “ha!” and says, “yeah, sure, when  _ hell  _ freezes over.” 

And Frankie doesn’t really have anything to say to that. Jo scrubs a hand over her face and shakes herself, a sure sign she’s done talking. 

“Your mom has shit taste, by the way,” Frankie offers flippantly, once it’s clear Jo’s not going to say anything else, “that dress was hideous.” 

Her stomach warms when Jo’s face cracks into a smile, and when her shoulders lose some of their tension as she drops her head to laugh. 

“I love you,” she says, so fondly that it makes Frankie’s heart seize funnily in her chest. She squeezes Frankie’s hand before releasing it. 

“You’re my best friend, you know that?” Jo continues. She’s smiling now, warmly, and it chases off the last lingering traces of that smallness she’d had. 

Frankie doesn’t want to examine whether it’s relief or disappointment she’s feeling at that little caveat, so she doesn’t. Instead, she twists to face Jo and sling herself over Jo’s legs, perching on her knees and straddling her waist. She settles back onto Jo’s lap, lifting a hand to brush Jo’s neck, tuck her dark hair behind one ear. 

“Best friend with... benefits?” she asks, coy. Jo smirks up at her, slides her warm hands up Frankie’s bare thighs and up, settling them right at the waistband of her shorts. She rubs soft circles with the pads of her thumbs on the bare skin of her sides, and Frankie shivers. 

“Nah,” she says breezily, “just two platonic gal pals hanging out.” 

She punctuates her words by stretching up to press a quick, dry kiss to Frankie’s lips. Frankie reels her back in for another one by the lapels of her hoodie, and this time it’s slower, deeper. Frankie slides her fingers into the hair on Jo’s nape, and Jo makes a noise in her throat as Frankie catches her lip gently between her teeth. 

“Are you actually gonna try on that shirt?” She pulls back to ask. Frankie throws a glance toward the blouse behind her, carelessly discarded on the ground, but leaves her hands where they’re resting on Jo’s neck. 

“Wasn’t planning on it.” she shrugs, turning back. Then, with a wicked grin, “Y’know if you want me to take my shirt off, all you have to do is ask.” 

Jo laughs. “Excuse you, I’m a gentleman,” she says, playfully offended. Then, after a beat, “I wouldn’t make you take your own shirt off.”

Frankie laughs. Jo slips her fingers under the hem of her shirt, skimming her palms over the bare skin of her stomach before settling on her back.

In her back pocket, her phone buzzes. Jo jumps at the vibrations. Frankie sighs, dropping her head to Jo’s shoulder. 

“That’s probably MJ,” she says, leaning up on her knees to pull it out and check the messages. 

MJ:  _ where are you _

MJ:  _ I’m checking out did you want the blouse _

MJ isn’t one for punctuation in texts. Frankie types back a quick, _ too small in the arms _ , and then looks up at Jo, biting her lip. 

“Wanna ditch Linda and come look at dresses for formal with me and MJ?” 

Jo shrugs. “Anything’s better than Linda.”

She’s flippant as she says it, but the words hit Frankie harder, now that she’s seen the way Jo shrank away from her mother’s words. 

She texts MJ. 

_ We’ll meet you by the pretzel place if thats cool??? _ When she hits send, she dismounts Jo’s lap, straightening her top and checking her face in the mirror. Jo slides her beanie back on. 

MJ:  _ k _

MJ:  _ I’m taking you girls to lunc hdont spoil it  _

Frankie snorts softly at her mother’s typo, picking up her cup of melting ice. Halfway to shoving her phone back into her pocket, it buzzes again. 

She glances down.

MJ: _ is jo ok _

Frankie cuts her eyes up to where Jo is stooping to pick up the discarded shirt, adjusting it on its hanger. MJ had picked up on whatever tension she’d walked in on, then.

_ Think so _ , she texts back. Then, after a second’s indecision, _ thanks mom.  _

-

Frankie buys Jo a pretzel, because them’s the rules. When Jo drags Frankie to a movie, it’s with the promise of Buncha Crunch and Twizzlers, and when Frankie brings her to the mall, Jo gets bribed with Auntie Ann’s. She splits it with Frankie, in deference to Mrs. Healy’s lunch request, and shares the mustard with only token protests. They settle, Frankie giggling as Jo cracks jokes, on a bench not far from the storefront. When Mrs. Healy emerges from Macy’s a few minutes later, Jo wordlessly puts a few inches of space between their previously-flush knees. It’s not that she thinks Mrs. Healy would be a dick about it, but it’s really better to be safe than sorry, in Jo’s mind. Moms are hard. 

She pulls to a stop in front of them, eyeing Jo over like she might have fallen and hurt herself in the scant ten minutes since they’d last seen each other. Did Mom say something to her after Frankie dragged them away? 

“Hi Mrs. Healy,” Jo greets, casual-polite like you’re supposed to be with other people’s moms, and offers Frankie the last bite of pretzel. Frankie waves her off. Jo shrugs and pops the remaining piece of pretzel in her mouth, dusting off her hands as she stands.

“Sorry for ditching you with Mrs. Taylor,” Frankie winces up at her mom, “I know you don’t like her that much.” 

Jo gives a soft snort. “Who  _ does _ ?” she quips. 

Mrs. Healy’s mouth twists at that, in a way that almost makes Jo feel sorry for saying it, but she just dismisses Frankie with a wave of her hand. “Oh, don’t worry about me, sweetheart, I can PTA-smile with the best of them. I said I’d drop Jo off later tonight.”

Jo smiles gratefully, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Thanks, Mrs. Healy.”

Jo likes Mrs. Healy. Her and Frankie fight like tomcats sometimes, but she’s never looked at Jo or Frankie like they don’t matter. Clearly, she gives a shit. And she’s trying.

It’s possible that Jo’s bar is a little low when it comes to these sorts of things. 

Frankie sinks the last few ice cubes from her coffee with a rattle and gathers up their trash. As she wanders away in search of a garbage can, Jo is faced with the unfortunate situation of having to make small talk with a PTA mom by herself. Mrs. Healy settles her with a considering look. 

“Are you okay, Joanne?” Mrs. Healy asks, softly and like she’s not quite sure about it. Jo blinks at her, startled. 

“Uh,” she flounders. “Yeah? I mean --” She’s too taken-aback to brush the question off the way she would if it were Frankie, or if she’d been expecting the question. 

“You mean, because of Linda?” she asks, and one of the hands scrunched into her hoodie comes up to scratch at the back of her neck. 

“Did she… Say something to you?” She hazards. Linda’s M.O. is generally to complain about her to the other moms at church, so they don’t - God forbid - believe she  _ condones  _ whatever wrong things Jo’s running around doing. A weekly public shaming, for the viewing pleasure of the entire congregation. 

Mrs. Healy shakes her head quickly, “No, nothing like that. I just know --” she cuts a glance off to Frankie, tracking her as she locates the trash, “Moms can be hard, sometimes.” she says, pressing her lips together. 

Jo kicks the ground, shrugging. “It’s no big deal, I’m used to it.” 

The sympathetic looks usually get directed toward her mother, for putting up with the burden of maladjusted butch daughter with an attitude problem - they’re never actually directed at  _ Jo _ . 

A hand lands on her shoulder, and when she looks up, it’s right into Mrs. Healy’s earnest eyes. 

“If that woman gives you trouble, Joanne, you are always welcome with us.” She says, and her words have a solemn weight to them that means, Jo knows with stomach-sinking surety, she knows. Her breath catches. 

“I--” Jo swallows. 

It’s the closest a real adult has ever come to condemning her mother’s behavior, to really acknowledging that it’s wrong. And more than that, to  _ seeing  _ her. Mom’s friends at church are all sympathetic, commiserative. It’s all “It must be so hard to raise a daughter _ like that _ all on your own” and “I’m sure there was nothing you could do, Linda, she just needs a  _ father figure _ ” between sips of church-basement coffee and side-eyes. 

Part of her wants to balk, wants to deny it up and down, but Mrs. Healy isn’t accusing her of anything. Kind of the opposite, actually, which is. Crazy. 

Frankie’s coming back, and if she sees the way Jo’s about to cry and gets that look on her face, Jo’ll lose it for real, so she scrubs a hand over her face and forces a smile. 

“I’m cool, Mrs. Healy, really,” she says, shrugging and ducking her head. She takes a deep breath, brushing the moment off her metaphorical shoulders, but she looks up to Mrs. Healy before she can stop herself. 

“Thanks.” 

Mrs. Healy glances at Frankie, and then back at Jo. She nods. 

“You’re welcome, Joanne.” 

“It’s - ah. It’s just Jo, Mrs. Healy.” 

Mrs. Healy smiles. “Okay. Jo.” 

Frankie strolls to a stop next to them and raises her eyebrows expectantly. “Dresses?” she prompts. And they go. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been rattling around in my google docs since approximately three days after I posted the last part. Thank u to bi_and_bye for commenting and making me think "hey. someone might actually wanna read the rest of what I have. I should post it."

The dress store is one of those pop-up joints that sells Prom apparel in spring and vanishes the moment summer hits. The amount of sequins on the mannequins is dizzying. Frankie’s ecstatic. She rushes off to poke through the displays, leaving MJ in the dust and Jo to amble behind her, hands in her pockets.

Shopping with Frankie is nothing like shopping with her mother - for one thing, Jo’s never required to put anything on, or grapple with being negged for several uncomfortable hours about how unattractive it is when she wears her normal clothes, and how she looks like a boy and she should start acting normal. Frankie just sits her down in those chairs reserved for clueless boyfriends or on the bench in the dressing room and tries on clothes while Jo tries to come up with more thoughtful things to say than, “you are literally the most beautiful person I have ever seen.” 

She uses that one, when Frankie’s tried on one too many misses in a row and starts sucking in her stomach and turning sideways in the mirror with her mouth pulled down in a frown. And then, usually, they make out and get pretzels. 

Frankie’s  _ mom  _ is with them, though, so makeouts and compliments like that are off the table - and they’ve already gotten pretzels. She’s really not sure what’s going to happen here. 

Every dress in the store comes in a rainbow of colors, and Jo’s eyes slide to the display of coordinating vests and ties in the back of the store. Presumably, it’s there so girls who buy their dresses here can rope their dates into getting their suits here, too. 

Jo pictures Frankie, at the bottom of the stairs in her parents’ house, in a sparkly dress with some faceless boy. He’s in a matching vest and tie, with a flower in his lapel to go with the one on her wrist, and they sport big matching grins on their faces as he holds her uncomfortably at the waist and Mrs. Healy snaps photos. It’s soft and sweet and painfully heterosexual and Jo aches, a little, to know that someone else is going to take Frankie to Prom instead of her. 

A chirpy white brunette woman appears, head-to-toe in black, and there’s a complicated moment where she pauses in the middle of the showroom floor to look between Jo and Mrs. Healy and Frankie like she’s trying to parse out who the best person to approach is, before she settles on Mrs. Healy. Her smile is bright and she introduces herself as Emily before asking, with a hint of delicacy, “who are we shopping for today?” 

MJ, maybe just to make the girl squirm, says, “My daughter, Frankie,” as briskly and evenly as she can manage. 

Emily darts a look at Jo, slouched casually in a hoodie with her beanie pulled down over her hair. Jo gives her a pleasant smile, and waits a beat. 

“Frankie!” Jo calls, directly over the poor woman’s shoulder, and Emily one-eighty-spins toward Frankie, who looks up at the sound of her name. 

Emily clasps her hands together and smiles brightly. “Excellent!” she says, “Frankie, do you know your measurements?” 

Frankie rattles off a few numbers and Emily fills in the gaps with a tape measure before whisking her off to a rack of around eight thousand dresses in her size. There are chairs. Are they still boyfriend chairs in a dress shop? Do the boyfriends usually come for the dress shopping?

What is Jo even doing here? 

She slides into the boyfriend chair. 

Before she can get too in her head about clearly having crashed a Healy Girls’ Day, Frankie bounds up to her, a lump of taffeta slung over each arm. Jo’s eyes slide past her to where Emily-the-salesgirl is holding another three hangers. Mrs. Healy has at least one more. 

“That was… fast?”

Frankie grins. “The fun part is trying them on.” she bounces on her toes. “Come on!”

Jo’s eyes widen. 

“Uh,” she coughs, casting a side-eye to Frankie’s mother - as subtly as she can because the woman is  _ right there _ , and “best gal pals” can get them away with a lot, but if MJ knows about Jo--

Frankie just rolls her eyes, dismissive. 

“I’m gonna need someone to help me do up the back, it’s fine. Come on.” And then she’s walking away, toward the back of the store, so Jo ducks her head and follows and does not make eye contact with Mrs. Healy at all. 

The dressing room is more of an alcove, with a heavy velvet curtain and across from a triple-mirror - presumably to let the dress-wearer see it from all angles. There are hooks on which to hang all the dresses, so they can be individually assessed. It strikes Jo as very professional and adult. Frankie, businesslike, foists one of the taffeta lumps in her arms off on Jo before disappearing behind the curtain. Jo throws a helpless look to Emily-the-salesgirl. 

“Here,” Emily says kindly, hooking a deep purple gown onto the wall and offering a hand, “You’ll need your hands in a second.” 

Jo can feel herself blushing. 

“Okay!” Frankie’s voice comes, only a little muffled through the heavy fabric, “Come help me!”

Jo throws an awkward glance to Mrs. Healy, but ducks behind the curtain. 

The lighting is soft, and there’s yet another mirror on the back wall, and she sees Frankie’s reflection before she even registers Frankie herself. And it’s, well. It’s a lot. A strapless, heart-shaped bodice that poofs out at the waist, with sparkly rhinestones everywhere. It’s the kind of loud that distracts from the rest of her, and none of it really does anything to show her off. 

“ _ Wow _ ,” Jo comments, before she can stop herself. Frankie snorts. 

“Tell me how you really feel, Jo,” she quips, without heat. But she’s tilting her head at the dress and twisting her lips and narrowing her eyes and Jo knows she doesn’t like it anymore than Jo does. Jo dutifully clasps each eye-hook anyways, running the zipper up the back with quick hands.

Once she’s blinked away the stars, the dress isn’t really all that bad. It’s not great, doesn’t do anything special for her, but it’s still Frankie underneath. Frankie, whose face has literally made Jo lose her train of thought mid-sentence, whose long legs make her mouth go dry. 

She thinks about saying something to that effect, but Mrs. Healy is on the other side of the curtain, so she just sweeps it aside and gestures Frankie out. 

The dress gets nixed. So do the next three, for various reasons that Frankie explains to Emily as maturely and pragmatically as she can. After the first three, Emily scurries off and comes back with a rich red gown that’s, at the very least, promisingly free of rhinestones. 

Thankfully, Mrs. Healy isn’t providing too much negative input. She carefully tailors her comments to the design of the dress, and makes not one single disparaging comment about Frankie’s body. It’s a fun new twist on the mother-daughter shopping experience that Jo had never really considered. She’s deeply grateful. Navigating that minefield is hard enough when it’s her own self-image that’s being destroyed - she’s not sure she could just stand by if it were Frankie. 

Still, when Frankie disappears back behind the curtain in Reject Number Four, she yanks it closed hard, and Jo can tell she’s getting frustrated. She doesn’t think, doesn’t look at Mrs. Healy, just ducks behind the curtain right after her. 

“Hey.” She pulls to a stop behind Frankie’s left shoulder.

Frankie’s glowering at her own reflection in the dress. It’s blue, and it sits on her hips wrong - apparently - gapping at the top in a way that Emily assures can be fixed, but has Frankie rubbing a self-conscious hand over her chest and turning to the side to look at her profile. Jo catches her wrist, pulls her gently until she’s facing away from the mirror. 

“ _ Hey _ ,” she says again, more earnestly than before. She lets go, and Frankie’s hand drops in the heavy way that takes her shoulders down with it. Jo has to duck her head to catch Frankie’s eyes. The excited gleam that was in them earlier is gone, and there’s an irritated pinch in between her eyebrows. She’s still fucking beautiful. 

“Hey.” This one, soft and gentle, finally makes Frankie look up properly, meeting her gaze. 

Jo runs her eyes over Frankie’s face - her dark skin, her big eyes, the lips she’s had literal space-out daydreams about. She ducks in to press her lips, soft and quick to the corner of Frankie’s mouth, and runs her palms over her shoulders, down her arms. Every breath is coming a little easier, the tenseness slipping away under Jo’s fingertips. 

“You’re  _ beautiful _ ,” Jo murmurs, and doesn’t let herself be embarrassed by the raw wonder that she can hear in her own voice. Frankie makes like she’s going to roll her eyes, pull away, and Jo stops her, thumb running gently along the curve of her jaw. 

“Not the dress.” She says firmly. “You.” 

Frankie’s frustrated frown softens. 

“This isn’t as fun as I thought it would be,” Frankie admits. Jo gives her a crooked grin before sliding behind her to unzip.

“You’re really nailing it on the colors, though,” Jo offers teasingly, “Must be that Vogue article.” 

She can’t see it, but she knows Frankie’s rolling her eyes.

When Jo lets go of the last clasp, the dress falls right to the floor, pooling around Frankie’s feet, and Jo has close her eyes for a second against the sight of the smooth bare skin of her back and remember that _ Mrs. Healy is right outside _ . Still, she darts in to press a quick kiss to the back of Frankie’s neck. 

“You’ve got this.” 

Frankie takes a cleansing breath as she pulls the next dress off of its hanger, and Jo, bracingly, says, “I’ve got a good feeling about this one.” 

It’s the one Emily pulled for her, a rich red with delicate spaghetti straps and not a single sparkle in sight. No eye-hooks or zippers, either, so once it’s up over her shoulders, Jo just steps aside so Frankie can face the mirror. 

The neck of the dress is a deep V, and the sides of the bodice are made of a translucent lace, a tease of skin behind the delicate floral pattern. It hugs her waist and hips before flaring out gracefully at mid-thigh, and it makes Frankie look  _ radiant _ . 

“ _ Wow _ .

Jo’s mouth feels suddenly dry, and she realizes after a beat that she is literally staring with her mouth hanging open. She shuts it. Blinks a few times. Swallows. 

Frankie’s studying herself, turning this way and that like she’s not sure about it, but Jo is  _ actually  _ struggling to move her eyes away from the place where her hips meet her waist. Her hands flex at her sides, itching to reach out and touch.

“What do you think?” Frankie asks, like she’s not aware that the little gerbil on the wheel in Jo’s brain has just hopped off to take its lunch break and left it spinning out unattended. She’s still roving her eyes over herself in the mirror, like she’s looking for flaws, but the smile on her face is growing by the second. 

Frankie looks up to meet her eyes in the mirror, eyebrows flicking up expectantly. Jo can see her own expression, wide-eyed and caught out. She flushes guiltily, but Frankie just blinks at her.

Right - she needs to  _ say  _ something. 

“If you wear that dress to Prom, I’m gonna strangle your date.” Jo announces, trying for deadpan but missing the mark, landing more on breathless and gay. God, she feels just - fervently, overwhelmingly gay. Frankie’s smile flickers for a moment into a frown, but she smooths it over. 

“So… you like it then?” 

“ _ Yes _ ,” she blurts, emphatic and too-fast. Frankie’s right to be laughing at her. 

She reaches for the curtain to show her mother, even though Jo would  _ really  _ like to have a moment to compose herself again before she has to be -- witnessed. Especially by Mrs. Healy. She’s sure it’s got to be written all over her face, her wide eyes, the incriminating heat that’s crawling up her neck.

Moms have some kind of radar for that shit, Jo’s sure of it. A “you want to fuck my daughter” radar. 

“Oh,  _ honey _ ,” Mrs. Healy says, pressing fingers to her lips and looking like she might cry. Frankie gives a showy spin, and steps up onto the platform to look at herself in full three-angled focus. 

They buy the dress. 

Frankie tries on a few more, and one of them even gives her pause, but nothing gets the same lit-from-within smile that the red dress does, so they buy it. Mrs. Healy’s tense, maybe about the price tag, and she gets a far-off look in her eye even as Frankie’s gushing delightedly to her about it. 

Salesgirl-Emily sports a proud, warm smile as she takes the dress, congratulating Frankie. Jo figures they’re about ready to bounce when Emily turns to her and asks, still chirpy, “Did you want to try anything on today?” 

She spares half a second pretending to consider it, but pictures herself standing on the podium with the three-panel mirror in a sparkly dress and almost full-body  _ shudders  _ at the image. 

“Not really a dress kinda guy,” She dismisses, waving it off, “Thanks, though.” 

Emily tilts her head appraisingly. 

“We supply suits, as well, if that’s more your style.” she offers, carefully neutral, and Jo blinks at her, startled.

“I --”

Intellectually, Jo knows that girls wearing suits to prom isn’t unheard of, or even particularly out of the ordinary. People do it. She’s, like, seen it on instagram or whatever. She never really thought  _ she  _ could do it. 

“Really?” it comes out high-pitched, incredulous. Exceptionally unchill. 

She just - well, she never really considered  _ going  _ to Prom, is the thing. Let alone what she would wear there. It was a non-starter. Her mother only grudgingly lets her out of the house in Docs and a T-shirt -  _ Prom _ ?

Emily nods encouragingly, her smile warming to something kinder, less Salesgirl-sunny and more genuine. “Sure! Let me take a look for you, I’ll be right back!” 

She’s off before Jo can really protest -- which she should. Vehemently. Because while it’s a nice thought, she can’t buy a suit. Can’t afford it -- wouldn’t  _ dare  _ take it home -- and she’s not going to Prom. 

She can’t buy a suit. 

The thing is. The  _ thing  _ is. She’s picturing it in her mind now, the image from before of Frankie and her faceless date. Frankie, in her red dress with her hair pinned up. A tux with a red vest and a rose in the lapel. Mrs. Healy taking pictures. And it  _ could  _ be her, but it won’t be. 

It’ll be some other schmuck. 

And that  _ fucking  _ blows.

Jo’s stammering out an apology the second Emily’s back in sight, for wasting her time -- she sorry, really, she just can’t--

“Jo.” 

It’s Mrs. Healy who cuts over her, soft and even and not even a little bit judgmental. She gives a soft smile and inclines her head toward the pile of fabric in the lady’s hands.

“Try it on.” She gives a shrug, like she couldn’t care less either way. 

“I can’t afford a suit,” she tells Emily with an apologetic shrug, hands in her pockets. 

Emily shrugs guilelessly back. “That’s okay. I don’t have anyone else to help.” She pointedly glances around the empty store, then gives a jaunty nod back to the dressing rooms. 

Jo steels herself. Her resolve is crumbling, she can feel it, and it’ll only make it harder to sit at home on Prom night and know that Frankie’s going with someone else, without her, but she wants to. Wants to so badly she feels like her teeth are aching with it. 

Frankie pokes her in the side, making her yelp. 

“Please?” She’s biting her lip, cautiously excited. Fuck. 

“Fuck,” Jo hisses, because there go the reasons not to, slipping away, circling the drain.

“Yeah, okay. Sure.” She relents.

Emily grins, like she’s actually excited, and Jo gets the impression that Emily actually really enjoys her job, because she’s practically bouncing as she leads them all back, once more, into the dressing rooms.

“I never get to fit suits,” she confesses, “this is so fun! I grabbed a few different things…” 

She makes quick work of lining the handful of shirts and suit jackets on the wall, and unwinds her tape measure from around her neck. There’s an uncomfortable moment where Jo has to stand there and let her wrap it around her waist, lay it across the length of her shoulders, and she seriously considers walking away -- but then it’s over, and Emily’s pulling a deep red button-down off of the wall. 

It’s the same color as Frankie’s dress. 

A black sport coat, a pair of pressed slacks, and a gentle hand on the center of her back pushing her behind the curtain - this time alone. 

Deep breath. 

Emily is chatting with MJ and Frankie, about Prom and what school they go to, but it feels far away. 

It’s cliché, and it feels cliché, to just stand here and look at herself in the mirror, but the dim lighting and the suit and the relative silence are crashing in on her all at once. 

Tan joggers, old-ass adidas, and a worn-out t-shirt - under a worn-out work flannel -  _ under  _ a hoodie. Unremarkable brown hair stuffed into a red hat. She looks tired. 

The hat comes off, then the hoodie, then the t-shirt, and then she’s standing there in her sports bra. 

The lights are better in here than they are in  _ fucking  _ Macy’s, where the fluorescents make her look drawn, pale, exhausted. Maybe too, it’s that looking at herself doesn’t suck as much, when she’s not busy bracing herself for whatever Linda’s going to say when she comes out. 

Pulling the red shirt off its hanger, she slips it over her shoulders, fixes the collar. It’s soft, kind of silky, and it buttons easily over her chest and waist in a way that means it probably wasn’t made for men. Are there a lot of girls who wear dress shirts to prom? Is there, like, a market for it? And is she supposed to tuck the shirt into the pants? 

She does, and then she slips on the jacket. 

It looks good. 

She almost feels surprised, by how good it looks - how right it feels, to stand in the mirror and look at herself. Clothes don’t usually make Jo feel good. Sometimes, they make her feel bad, and sometimes they make her feel  _ better _ , but rarely does she pick out an outfit with the intention of feeling or looking good.

The lapels of the jacket are a shiny silken texture, and she runs her fingers over them, fidgeting with them as she takes in her reflection. It’s deliberately masculine-but-not, and it makes her look tall, straight up-and-down. 

The pants are skinny, tapering at the ankle, and she either has to wear her beat sneakers with them or walk out in blue-and-green striped ankle socks, so she takes a second to re-lace her adidas. The shirt doesn’t fit quite right, a little baggy in the shoulders and too long, but from the front, it’s hard to tell. Should the shirt be buttoned all the way to the neck? It feels wrong not to, if only because there’s some sort of tie involved in suit-wearing, usually. 

Prom night reassembles itself in her mind: Frankie beside her in the Healy foyer, both of them in their formal best. Mrs. Healy takes their picture and Jo tucks a rose behind Frankie’s ear, slides a corsage around her wrist, holds her at the waist for the photo-op. Frankie could rest her head on Jo’s shoulder during slow songs and they could get slick and pilfer Linda’s liquor cabinet - she hardly drinks (too uptight). She wouldn’t notice it gone. 

“Can we see yet?” Frankie’s voice comes from a lot closer than Jo’s expecting it to, clearly right outside. Glancing down, Jo can see the shadows cast by her feet.

When she pulls the curtain aside, it’s with a put-on gusto - the defensive kind that says, “if I play this like a joke, you’re laughing  _ with  _ me.” 

Frankie doesn’t laugh, thank God. She grins, sunshine-bright, and makes to twirl Jo princess-style across the showroom floor. Jo flips the script on her, lifting an arm and twisting until it’s Frankie who’s being danced in a giggling circle. 

When they’re done, Jo sticks her hands in the pockets of the dress pants and spins on her heel. She can’t keep the smile from curling onto her face. 

“What do you think?” 

Frankie’s eyes slide all the way from her eyes to the floor and back up, which makes Jo’s neck prickle. It might just be the full weight of her gaze. 

Then, she’s closing the gap between them, hands reaching for Jo’s neck. For a second, Jo thinks she’s going to kiss her - in front of God, her mother, and Emily-the-salesgirl - but with deft fingers she pops one, two, three buttons, and fusses until the barest hint of black sports bra is peeking through.

She steps back. 

“Handsome.” she decides, and Jo’s stomach clenches warmly.  _ Handsome _ . Then, “Wait--” her hand comes back up to muss up Jo’s hat-headed hair, combing out the sides until they hang loose around her face. 

“Okay.  _ Now  _ it’s perfect.” she decrees with finality. “Mom?” 

Mrs. Healy, apparently content to let them have their moment, has an indulgent sort of smile on her face. Jo should really talk to Frankie about this, because it’s becoming less and less likely with every passing moment that they’re being anywhere near as slick as Frankie seems to think they’re being. Frankie may not think so, but Mrs. Healy’s a smart lady. 

“How much?” Mrs. Healy says, and Jo’s heart stops. Frankie looks at her mother in confusion, but Mrs. Healy is looking at Emily, determination on her face. 

“Mrs. Healy -” Jo tries to cut over her, any of a million excuses on her lips, “I don’t-” but MJ raises one hand, and turns to look Jo straight in the eye.

“You look very nice, Jo.” she says, kindly, firmly, and it feels like Jo’s ceding ground when she ducks her head and flushes.

“Thank you.”

“Do you like it?” Mrs. Healy asks measuredly.

Jo can’t breathe with how much she wants to keep wearing this suit, and that’s got to be clear on her face, so she doesn’t even have a leg to stand on. “Yeah,” she admits, at length, “I do.” 

Mrs. Healy nods once, like that’s solved everything, and starts fishing in her purse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There still might be more. I haven't exactly worked out the kinks but there very well might be more. Catch me at thebitchriarchy.tumblr.com if you wanna talk and I will always reply so come say hey

**Author's Note:**

> I'm having fun exploring the difference between Frankie's relationship with MJ and Jo's relationship with Linda. Because they're different! and the kind of teen angst related to them is different. 
> 
> There will probably be a second chapter to this? stay tuned. 
> 
> plus if you wanna talk abt jo taylor PLEASE come message me at thebitchriarchy.tumblr.com because I'm literally going FERAL over how much I love her and feel seen by her.


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